T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

We shook hands across her desk, but only after she wiped her fingers clean with a moist towelette. She said, “Sorry the place is such a mess. I’ve been here a month and I swore I’d get organized before the holidays. Have a seat, if you can find one.”

I had a choice between two chairs, both of which were stacked with file folders and back issues of geriatric journals.

“That stuff will probably end up in the trash. You can put it on the floor.”

I shifted the weight of magazines from the seat to the floor and sat down. She seemed relieved to have the chance to sit as well.

“What can I help you with?”

I laid Solana Rojas’s application on the only bare spot I could find. “I’m hoping to verify some information about a former employee. She’s been hired to look after an elderly gentleman, whose niece lives in New York. I guess you’d call this ‘due diligence.’”

“Of course.”

Eloise crossed the room to a bank of gray metal file cabinets and opened a drawer. She pulled Solana Rojas’s personnel file, leafing through the pages as she returned to her desk. “I don’t have much. According to this, she came to work for us in March of 1985. Her job evaluations were excellent. In fact, in May of that year, she was Employee of the Month. There were no complaints and she was never written up. That’s the best I can do.”

“Why did she leave?”

She glanced back down at the file. “She apparently decided to go to graduate school. Must not have suited her if she’s already applying for private-duty work.”

“Is there anyone here who knew her? I was hoping for someone who’d worked with her on a day-to-day basis. The guy she’ll be caring for is a contrarian, and his niece wants someone with patience and tact.”

“I understand,” she said, and checked Solana’s file again. “It looks like she worked on One West, the post-surgery floor. Maybe we can find you someone who knows or remembers her.”

“That would be great.”

I followed her down the hall, not entirely optimistic about my chances. In doing a background check, fishing for personal data can be a tricky proposition. If you’re talking to a friend of the subject’s, you have to get a feel for the nature of the relationship. If the two are close buddies or confidantes, there’s probably a treasure trove of intimate information, but your chances of retrieving it are dim. By definition, good friends are loyal and, therefore, quizzing them on the down-and-dirty details about a pal seldom yields much of use. On the other hand, if you’re talking to a work mate or casual acquaintance, you have a better shot at the truth. Who, after all, can resist the invitation to trash someone else? An interpersonal rivalry can be exploited for potential bombshells. Bad blood, including overt conflicts, jealousies, petty grievances, or an inequity in pay or social status, can produce unexpected riches. For maximum success in prying, what you need is time and privacy so the person you’re talking to will feel free to blab to her heart’s content. The post-surgery floor wasn’t likely to yield the proper atmosphere.

Here I encountered a tiny stroke of luck.

Lana Sherman, the LVN who’d worked with Solana for the better part of a year, was just leaving the nurse’s station for a coffee break and she suggested I tag along.

13

On our way down the hall to the staff lounge, I asked her a few questions, trying to get a feel for the kind of person she was. She told me she was born and raised in Santa Teresa, that she’d been at Sunrise House for three years, and she liked it okay. “Effusive” was not an adjective I’d have been tempted to apply. Her dark hair was thin, with layers of drooping ringlets that looked dispirited. Already I wanted her to fire her “stylist” and try someone new. Her eyes were dark and the whites were bloodshot, as though she were trying her first contact lenses without much success.

The staff lounge was small but attractively furnished. There was a table with chairs drawn up to it, a modern couch, and two upholstered love seats arranged around a coffee table. A microwave oven, a toaster, a toaster oven, and a coffeemaker sat on the counter. The refrigerator was decorated with stern warnings about the sanctity of other employees’ food. I took a seat at the table while Lana poured coffee in a mug and added two packs of Cremora and two of Sweet ’N Low. “You want coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

She picked up a tray and carried it to the vending machine, where she put numerous coins in the slot. She punched a button and I watched her selection tumble into the bin below. She brought her tray to the table and off-loaded her coffee mug, her spoon, and a package of miniature chocolate-covered doughnuts.